


Last Caravan

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred does something reckless, as always, and, as always, Arthur gets mad. Alfred thinks of ways to apologize without actually having to say the word "Sorry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Caravan

**Author's Note:**

> Oiginally posted to the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ January 29, 2011. 
> 
> Request was for tent sex during the Iraq War, only I suck and the tent hardly has anything to do with this fill.

Arthur sets up the tent in silence, brow furrowed, wearing his fatigues and throwing his bed roll into the tent. He gives Alfred a sharp look and Alfred gives him a sunny smile. This only makes Arthur angrier and he slouches into the tent, ignoring Alfred. The smile falls from Alfred’s face and he lets out a long breath of air, slumping slightly. He runs his hands through his hair and sighs out again, unsure what to do and hating himself for being hesitant of all things.   
  
Ten minutes pass. He makes the trip towards the tent quietly, hunching his shoulders and trying to look perfectly innocent. And, most important of all, attempting to look apologetic—because then he won’t have to actually _say_ he’s sorry and Arthur can just guess by his body language.   
  
When he pulls open the flap of the tent and ducks inside, Arthur is sitting on his bedroll, rolled over his bed frame, pulling off his boots and sweat running down the side of his face. It is sweltering inside the tent, but it’s to be expected of the desert in Iraq. Arthur doesn’t say anything as Alfred scoots into the tent and lets the cloth fall over the opening behind him. Arthur doesn’t even look up.   
  
_Well, fuck forever,_ Alfred thinks, frowning. He lingers awkwardly by Arthur’s bed frame, wondering if he should be doing the wartime version of sleeping on the couch—and his mind reels to try and think of where this proverbial couch may be—when Arthur seems to take pity on him and lets out a sigh. Alfred goes rod stiff, waiting for Arthur to speak. He feels tired, but he is also buzzing with nervous energy that makes him feel giddy and floppy. But not the good kind of giddy and floppy—the kind of giddy and floppy that made him also feel a little barfy. And feeling barfy in the desert was always a really, really bad idea.   
  
Alfred lingers by the bed for a few awkward minutes and eventually Arthur either grows weary of it or actually feels some more sympathy in his stony heart, because he finally speaks. He doesn’t turn in Alfred’s direction, though, but at least it’s something.   
  
“I’m angry with you.”  
  
“I kinda got that, yeah,” Alfred says, a little too quickly.   
  
Arthur’s expression closes off. “You _understand_ that I’m angry with you.”   
  
“Yeah, I do.” Alfred scrambles to find some kind of words, to try to console Arthur without making him angrier or, even worse, having to apologize. “Listen, Arthur, I—”  
  
He begins, and, as he often does, chokes up. He comes to an abrupt halt in his words when Arthur tilts his head, glancing at him just slightly and holding up his hand to silence Alfred. And Alfred silences himself immediately. Damn Arthur and his ability to even _manage_ that in the first place.   
  
“And you understand that you’re a complete fool, I hope. And selfish.”   
  
Arthur turns away again with a sigh when Alfred doesn’t immediately answer. But it’s not as if Arthur could be expecting Alfred to be _honest_ about something like that. He knows why Arthur’s angry, of course, and perhaps to _himself_ he can admit that he’s kind of foolish and selfish sometimes—okay, most of the time—but it’s not as if Arthur can honestly expect for Alfred to come clean about that. No way. It’s just not how he rolls.   
  
He still feels kind of barfy, and a little sweaty. And he tries to pass it off as fatigue from baking in his uniform in the hot Iraqi sun. Speaking of fatigues, his feel far too hot, too. And Arthur is just _sitting there_ on his bed frame as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, but really Alfred knows better. He can see it in the slope of Arthur’s shoulders, the curve of his spine as he sits there, trying to act nonchalant while trying to lecture Alfred. Not cool.   
  
“Don’t you?” Arthur repeats.   
  
And Alfred sighs. “Arthur—”  
  
Arthur gives him a sharp look, because he obviously can sense the utter lack of apology in Alfred’s exhalation. Alfred frowns, and drops one knee onto Arthur’s bedroll. It dips underneath his weight, but Arthur does not shift away.   
  
“Okay,” Alfred says. “It was kind of reckless—but that’s what heroes do! And anyway—”  
  
“True heroes don’t jeopardize missions by running headfirst into bullets just to catch one fleeing insurgent.”   
  
“Sure they do! When they’re me, you—”  
  
Arthur’s teeth grit together when he snaps out, “There is nothing heroic about putting yourself in jeopardy. _You_ may never get hurt and can drag a humvee across the desert, but your men—and my men, though far calmer than yours—see that reckless behavior and start thinking themselves immortal as well!”   
  
“Dude, you’re taking this way too seriously!” Alfred protests.  
  
Arthur, naturally, puffs up like an angry bird. Usually Alfred finds that cute. But he never says so because that just makes Arthur angrier, more of the wild boar variety than a slightly disgruntled bird variety. And boars aren’t cute.   
  
“You could have ruined the entire mission and given away everyone’s locations, you complete fool!” Arthur snaps, his face turning red and his brows furrowing together.   
  
“Look, you’re—”  
  
“And what if you’d been captured?” Arthur snaps out, and turns his face away with a scowl. “What if they _found out who you are?_ Do you think it’d be heroic then?”  
  
 _Oh._ There is a brief moment when Alfred can’t think of a witty comeback and in a less volatile situation he would have teased Arthur for being worried for him. But. It was different here. Arthur was _worried for him._ And in these situations, knowing that Arthur had his back was the most important thing to Alfred. It meant the difference between night and day.   
  
Alfred ducks his head for half a moment and sighs. “Okay.”   
  
Arthur shifts, but does not turn to look at him again.   
  
Feeling the uneven, coiling knot of realization punching at the pit of his stomach, Alfred licks his lips and says, his words coming out breathless in a way that he hadn’t intended but won’t let stop him. “Okay, it was dumb. I should have stayed put. You can be mad at me or whatever, okay? I’m not saying that it wasn’t kind of reckless, and I’m not saying that I won’t do it again because let’s face it, it’s me, but I’d probably find a less stupid way to do it next time. And. Yeah. I’m… um.” He hates to apologize. He swallows. “So, yeah. Maybe it was dumb.”   
  
Arthur’s eyebrows draw together for just a second more. Then his face smoothes out and he is silent long enough for Alfred to start scrambling, wondering what else he has to do to pacify him—because he absolutely refuses to grovel, and that was the closest to an apology he was willing to go. But before he can start thinking up plans to make time machines or to knock Arthur out and pass it all off as a dream, Arthur lets out a long sigh and shifts, sitting back on his bedroll and drawing his legs up onto it with him.   
  
“Fine,” he says, mouth thinned into a terse line. His brows furrow.   
  
He sounds completely and utterly unenthusiastic. But Alfred grins—a little hesitantly, regardless, but a grin all the same. Arthur’s _fine_ sounds a little grudging and exhausted, and Alfred can still see the irritation in Arthur’s hunched shoulders. He can note the way Arthur’s fingers curl together and fist against his fatigues as if restraining himself. There’s a _reason_ Alfred usually chooses to ignore these things.   
  
“So… what kind of ‘fine’?” Alfred asks.   
  
Arthur gives him a wary look. He raises one eyebrow, trying to keep his cool despite faced with what he perceives to be Alfred’s stupidity. (It’s really Awesome Awesomeness, but he knows that Arthur’s just as stubborn about admitting stuff.)   
  
“Like, is it a fine that’s actually fine, or the ‘shut up and go away’ kind of fine?” Alfred asks.   
  
Arthur closes his eyes tight for a moment and sighs again. He shifts, turning his head and opening his eyes to look levelly at Alfred.   
  
“It’s a _fine_ that means,” Arthur says, slowly, sounding far more tired than he had before, “I’m still angry with you. But it is also a _fine_ that means I’ll be fine if you would give me time to move on.” He looks away, expression undoubtedly grumpy now. “As always.”   
  
“Oh,” Alfred says. His grin deflates a little, but still kind of tenses up at the corners. He swallows once, and the smile seems to grow a little wider—meant to be reassuring, and perhaps charming. He was always good at making Arthur melt. Maybe now could be a time like that, too.   
  
It’s still a little disappointing. Arthur always gets like this, and at least he admits he’ll get over it in time. But Alfred prefers the instant forgiveness. Who wouldn’t, right? He sinks lower against the bedroll, his knee starting to ache from its stationary position on Arthur’s bed. Arthur turns his face away again, refusing to look at Alfred’s mega-charming smile. But Alfred, deep down, hadn’t expected the smile to work, either. Part of him thinks that maybe Arthur’s right not to forgive him right away—he had jeopardized the mission by running right out into the open to chase down the enemies, not keeping any proper formation or decorum in mind, and knowing his boys, they’d pull some bullshit stunt like that, too, only they didn’t have the benefit of being able to bench press a bus like Alfred can. So maybe Arthur was right to be angry. Not that Alfred ever wants to admit that.   
  
“Um,” he says. “If you want. I can go sleep in another tent. If you’re gonna be mad all night long.” He frowns. “And stuff.”   
  
Where Alfred has the strength, Arthur has the grace. He moves fluidly, languidly—when he wants to. And he apparently wants to now because he shifts suddenly and presses up towards Alfred, capturing his eyes and holding tight. Alfred is so surprised by the movement—and lack of proper language response Arthur is always _so_ fond of—that he nearly falls over on his ass. And that would have been totally uncool so it was a good thing Alfred is so easily on guard after a surprise attack. But before he can properly fall off or save himself from falling off the bedroll, Arthur’s hands are on the back of Alfred’s neck, holding him tightly and staring at him. He’s crowded into Alfred’s personal space so successfully that Alfred is momentarily struck dumb and feeling really, really… well, dumb.   
  
Arthur doesn’t move, and doesn’t shift to press the distance into zero. But he’s so impossibly close, so suddenly, that Alfred feels his mouth go dry, especially when Arthur says quietly, “I don’t want that, Alfred.”   
  
His words are a little hoarse, and Alfred responds with lifting his hands to wrap around the front of Arthur’s uniform, fingers curling around the _Kirkland_ stitched over his breast pocket, and pulling him up to kiss him. He whispers, “Awesome!”   
  
And Arthur manages to roll his eyes before letting his eyes fall shut and kissing Alfred. It’s not a sweet kiss, but a demanding one—Arthur’s fingers dig into the back of Alfred’s neck and hold him close, curling harshly into his hair and tugging him down, closer—closer, always closer. It wasn’t necessarily Alfred’s plan to kiss Arthur, but now that it’s happening, he definitely isn’t complaining. And who would complain, anyway? Certainly not him. Especially since the bad giddy feeling is quickly replacing itself with the good kind of giddy, the kind of giddy that Arthur always manages to ignite in Alfred’s gut. Arthur’s hold is hard, and one hand uncurls to glide down Alfred’s back, fisting into his fatigues and tugging, before releasing and slipping up and along the ridges of Alfred’s back. And Alfred shivers because, well, it’s Arthur, and Arthur touching him. Arthur pushes against his back, guiding Alfred closer—and, again, Alfred obeys. It’s the only time he lets himself get bossed around, if it means a potentially awesome result.   
  
Arthur keeps tugging, though, and Alfred stumbles to make himself comfortable and not accidentally crack his knee into Arthur’s crotch because _that_ would be the deal breaker to end all deal breakers. Crisis is averted, though, and Alfred straddles Arthur’s legs, pushing down to kiss at Arthur’s mouth, lifting his hands to cup Arthur’s cheeks and guiding him closer. Arthur opens his mouth to Alfred and Arthur bites his bottom lip in what could have been desire but was probably also frustration—not like Alfred wants to stop and think about it too hard. He makes a soft noise and presses closer, letting Arthur suck Alfred’s tongue into his mouth as their kiss deepens.   
  
Arthur kisses him hard, tongue against Alfred’s and then tracing his teeth. Alfred can’t breathe, but it’s a nice feeling—he hates to catch his breath if it means there’s a moment when Arthur isn’t pressed up next to him. And if there’s nothing he loves more, it’s when Arthur clings to him so desperately in wake of some kind of adrenaline rush—when one of them is reckless, when the universe is reckless with them. It usually means Arthur gets clingy as fuck, but in the good kind of way that usually means Alfred’s going to get laid. And Alfred can admit to himself that he does it the same way, whenever he thinks that Arthur might be doing something stupid or foolish or absolutely batshit insane—and the desire to keep him close is overpowering. (Usually it’s Alfred that fucks up, much to his chagrin, though.)   
  
Alfred pushes against him, feels Arthur cling to him just as desperately, a joint feeling of desire that keeps one another from just letting go. The bed frame creaks beneath them and when Alfred pushes a bit too fiercely against Arthur, his head hits the side of the tent and makes the canvas billow. Alfred holds Arthur tightly, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind. He even seems to like it, if the way Arthur lets out a soft breath against his mouth is any indication. Alfred tugs on Arthur’s hair a little harsher than he normally would have, but Arthur’s response is just a quiet murmur against his mouth as his tongue traces at the back of his teeth. He bucks up, just slightly, against the inside of Alfred’s thigh—  
  
And finally breaks the kiss with a small breath. He doesn’t drift away. Alfred won’t let him. He presses a kiss to Arthur’s jaw, tastes the sweat and the sand that clings insistently to their skin.   
  
“You’re a fool,” Arthur breathes against Alfred’s lips, eyelids fluttering before staying completely shut. Alfred doesn’t pull away, but instead tries to kiss Arthur again. Arthur merely brushes his lips, very lightly, over Alfred’s. It isn’t much for Alfred’s troubles, but it’s enough for him to fall quiet.   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Alfred mutters, and is the closest he’ll get to admitting, once again, his stupidity. Sorry or not—and Alfred thinks to himself he _is_ sorry, but incapable of ever saying it—Alfred still pushes Arthur onto his back, climbing up over him and kissing him. Arthur tips his head back, lets Alfred lay waste to his mouth. He does not fight it. He flops back against the bedroll, the bed frame rocking with a slight creak. Alfred makes himself comfortable between Arthur’s legs, and Arthur’s legs squeeze up against his hips—an invitation Alfred’s not about to say no to.   
  
But Alfred pulls away from the insistent, needy kiss, and Arthur blinks his eyes open to stare up at him—a silent demand to know _why he is taking so damned long._ Alfred just grins—that grin that makes Arthur look kind of loopy and go weak-kneed, though it’s not as noticeable when he’s sprawled out on his back like that. Alfred works at tugging off the top of Arthur’s uniform, and sits back to admire Arthur’s bare chest and arms—something that only makes Arthur scowl and turn red and threaten to sit up on his own if Alfred doesn’t just get on with it on his own.   
  
Alfred’s fingers curl around Arthur’s belt, undoing it and fisting Arthur’s waistband to tug the rest of his fatigues down and off. There are times, though, when Arthur is hard to read—harder than should be necessary, though Alfred suspects that it’s just because Arthur is so damn old that he’s become a master at disguising some things, while being perfectly and completely obvious in other ways. As it is now, he’s looking up at Alfred with a rather sublimely _blank_ expression, and Alfred can’t read it at all. So unsure of Arthur’s reaction to things, Alfred backs off a little, his hold on Arthur’s pants loosening just enough that Arthur slants his eyes up and holds his gaze steady. There’s nothing in his face to suggest much of anything, except for one, brief, shining moment, his lips curve into a slight smile that touches the corners of Arthur’s eyes.   
  
“Alfred,” Arthur says, calmly, and Alfred blinks down at him.   
  
“Yeah, what?” Alfred asks.   
  
“The next time you’re going to be a complete fool, remember to take me with you so I can—”  
  
“Kick the shit out of me for being a ‘complete fool’?” Alfred guesses.  
  
Arthur nods his head and lifts his hands to rest on Alfred’s hips. “Yes.”   
  
“Okay,” Alfred agrees, and feels his entire body warm up to a comfortable, giddy feeling. He grins, a bit lopsided, and Arthur lifts his hand, dragging Alfred down so he can press his lips against the curve of Alfred’s jaw and work his way up to his ear, his breath coming out in a ragged gasp. And he presses his lips to the dip in his jaw just below his ear, and Alfred makes a small noise in the back of his throat because it feels nice and that’s what matters—right? He lifts his chin and Arthur takes his mouth with his again, his kiss much softer now, much less possessive but still setting Alfred on fire.   
  
Alfred pulls Arthur’s pants down. They slides smoothly down Arthur’s thighs. Alfred pulls slowly, letting his knuckles curl along Arthur’s skin, brushing against him. Arthur’s eyes fall shut and he leans his head back against an army-grade pillow—meaning it _sucks balls_ , in Alfred’s words, not Arthur’s—and lets out a low kind of noise that could almost be a whine but isn’t quite there yet. So Alfred places one hand on Arthur’s stomach and the other curls around Arthur’s cock and pumps him. And Arthur lets out a gasp that really is a whine this time.   
  
“You okay?” Alfred asks, grinning that shit-eating grin of his.  
  
Arthur huffs out a thick laugh and mutters a quiet, “Shut the fuck up.”   
  
And Alfred snorts a quiet laugh that Arthur responds with one in turn, for lack of anything else to do. There’s not much else Arthur can do but roll his hips just slightly and thrust weakly up into Alfred’s stationary hand. He laughs breathlessly, and Alfred’s fingers chase after Arthur’s shifting stomach. He bends his head, kissing at Arthur’s chest and working his way down slowly. Arthur sucks in a deep breath, the laughter dying in his throat. That’s okay. Alfred thinks Arthur should focus on him, anyway, and not focus on laughing _at_ him.   
  
He pulls his lips down over Arthur’s body, intoxicated by the sound of Arthur’s pants and heavy breathing. Alfred presses a kiss to Arthur’s hipbone and along the flat of his navel. His hand is still tight around the heavy weight of Arthur’s cock, and with one last breath of a gasp from Arthur, Alfred takes the cock into his mouth and licks up the underside before pressing the head into his mouth. Arthur moans out a quiet word or phrase that Alfred does not quite catch over the sound of his own breathing and the steady sound of blood in his ears as it quickly redirects itself downward to his own crotch. Arthur shifts his hands and grabs at the back of Alfred’s head, holding him closer and angling up for Alfred to take more of his cock into his mouth.   
  
Alfred anchors one hand against Arthur’s hip as he takes more of Arthur into his mouth, which frees Alfred’s other hand to squeeze into his own pants, wiggling past his belt and fisting his hand around his hardened cock, pumping slowly. It feels good—better than it probably should since it’s just Alfred’s own hand on his own cock—but the taste of Arthur in his mouth is distracting, and Alfred moans quietly as he feels the weight of Arthur’s cock against his tongue and pushing further into his mouth. He brushes his tongue up against the underside of Arthur’s cock as he takes more and more into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking him in deeper. Arthur tries his hardest to keep still, moaning quietly, his hips quivering in the involuntary desires to jerk up and into Alfred’s mouth.   
  
“Alfred,” Arthur whimpers, in that way he always does right before he’s about to reach the peak, and he doesn’t last that long but it’s okay because it’s Arthur. And Alfred’s eyes flicker shut as he savors the taste of Arthur, his hand fisting harshly around his cock and pumping. Alfred speeds his ministrations up, rubbing his tongue along the length of Arthur’s cock, taking him further and further into his mouth and trying to relax his throat enough to take all of him in, but it’s hard to concentrate and he actually does want Arthur to thrust up into him.   
  
Arthur’s breath hitches and he does thrust up, his hips jerking unsteadily, and Alfred isn’t anywhere near complaining because Arthur is bracing himself and swallowing around his moans as Alfred swallows around his cock. Arthur comes in his mouth and Alfred swallows him up, his hand fisted around his own cock and pumping himself to orgasm.   
  
Alfred breathes out through his nose, using his mouth to pump Arthur dry until Arthur sighs, relaxing beneath him, fully sated. Alfred’s hand is sullied from his own enthusiasm and he frowns to himself, cheeks flushing. But he pulls away and sits back on his knees, letting out a slow, stuttering breath as he stares down at Arthur, who stares up at him, slightly dazed but his lips touched with that same smile—and he doesn’t seem mad anymore. Alfred raises his hand to wipe at his mouth and realizes how totally uncool that motion probably is, but it’s too late because Arthur is laughing at him.  
  
“Come here,” he says gently, and Alfred obeys only after pulling his shirt off so he can wipe his hand and he _knows_ that’s totally and completely disgusting but he also kind of doesn’t give a fuck if Arthur wants to cuddle with him or whatever it is he wants.   
  
So he tosses his shirt aside and curls up next to Arthur on Arthur’s tiny little bed frame. The desert wind rattles the tent, and Alfred watches the movements of the canvas with a slow little sigh.   
  
“So anyway,” Alfred says. “If I was apologizing, that’s totally how I’d do it.”  
  
Arthur’s eyes are shut and he hums absently, but Alfred knows he’s completely unfooled. But, somehow, Alfred doesn’t mind all that much, either.


End file.
